


Can't Buy Me Love

by flibbertygigget



Series: The Other 51 [33]
Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: First Kiss, Hero Worship, Jay is an awkward puppy, M/M, POV First Person, Seduction, courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:15:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7229614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbertygigget/pseuds/flibbertygigget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gatsby always seemed vaguely disturbed that I was able to live with <i>less</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Buy Me Love

Gatsby always seemed vaguely disturbed that I was able to live with _less_.

He tried not to make it obvious, of course. When he came over to my cottage, resplendent in his crisp white suit, he would be the perfect guest. Yet I couldn't help but notice how his eyes seemed to wander, studying every piece of furniture as though he was appraising it and found it lacking. His gaze made me slightly uncomfortable, but I didn't think to mention it until he began to try to fix my supposed deficiency.

It started with small things, barely noticeable. A 50-year-old bottle of fine wine. A silk necktie that probably had cost him more than my entire wardrobe. But when Gatsby offered me a car, "the latest model," I couldn't pretend any longer.

"Gatsby," I said, refusing to take the keys, "I can manage just fine without it." Gatsby played nervously with his cufflinks.

"But you're a stockbroker. Surely you must go up to the city, old sport."

"I rarely need to, and the train works fine."

"The car can get you there much faster! It's just a gift."

"A gift?" I tried to keep the anger from my voice and failed. "I think you've been giving me entirely too many  _gifts_ lately. I'm not some beggar, you know. There's no need to try to- to do whatever it is you are doing." Gatsby was silent for a moment, staring at the ground.

"I understand," he said quietly. "I will not disturb you again, old sport." I should have been relieved, but instead I felt vaguely guilty. This was not Jay Gatsby. Jay Gatsby was a whirlwind of pageantry and color, completely unapologetic about his money or himself, but this man was nervous, uncertain, and I couldn't understand why.

"Wait! Gatsby, I didn't mean it like that, I just-"

"Yes?" The hope in his eyes was killing me. I shifted awkwardly, mind racing to find the right words.

"I just- I know that I'm less successful than you are, and I don't want to feel as though I'm a... a charity case or what have you." Gatsby took a step towards me, and his hand reached out. He slid the silk necktie between his fingers, but his eyes were all on me, for once not distracted by his fine things or staring into the distance. Their beauty took my breath away, and I remember thinking that this,  _this_ was why I had been drawn to Jay Gatsby.

"You're not a charity case," he said. "I understand, old sport, why you wouldn't want to accept what you would consider to be handouts, but trust me when I say that they are just gifts, nothing more. I enjoy seeing something of mine in the possession of a friend."

"You give all your friends cars?" I said. He gave a nervous sort of laugh.

"No, no, of course not. That's not to say that you're anything more than- But you are among my closest of-" I could have laughed at the way he fumbled for words that to me seemed so obvious.

"I understand. I consider you my greatest friend as well." The statement wasn't strictly true. Jay Gatsby to me seemed almost like a god among men, and to claim his friendship seemed sacrilegious. I could admire him from afar, I could act as a captive audience as he talked of his Daisy, but I could never picture myself truly saying to some broker "Yes, I was at my friend Gatsby's" or "My friend Gatsby told me." But for him I could find it in me to pretend I could aspire to the heavens.

"No. God damn it, Nick."

"Nick?" His fingers tightened around the necktie as I stared at him, shocked. I could count on one hand the number of times that he had called me by my name, and half of those were when he was introducing me to some friend or another.

"I'm doing this all wrong," he said softly, more to himself than to me. "Nick, when I wanted Daisy I begged and stole and lied my way into a fortune to make myself worthy of her. I can't do that for you, but I can-" He broke off, frustrated, but I was finally processing his words.

"Me? You want to make yourself worthy of me?" The very idea was ludicrous. If anything, I was the one who ought to be aspiring to improve myself in _his_ eyes. Then again, I was too aware that everything he saw, his wealth, his parties, his friends, would always be cast in shadow by the looming cathedral of Daisy.

"Yes, yes, that's what I've been trying to tell you this whole time. Damn it, Nick, every time I need someone to depend on, I look and you're there. When I'm confused, you always seem to be able to see through all the shadows that the world throws at us. I find myself second-guessing my every move, wondering what you will say when you hear of it. I know you would despise me if you knew half of the plans that I have abandoned because of that."

"I could never despise you," I said softly, and Gatsby's breath hitches.

"And yet- And yet no matter how I try, I can never be worthy of your love, so I try to buy it with trinkets, knowing all along that nothing can-"

"You don't need to buy my love," I said. "You already have it." I had no idea what I was saying back then. My childhood had been isolated, and though I had heard of men such as Jay I had never considered that he might love me as anything other than a brother and a friend. But when he kissed me (and, strange as it sounds, when I kissed him back) there was no mistaking the nature of his affection, if it can even be called that. I wrapped my arms around his neck, terrified of falling, terrified of letting go and having him disappear like a fantasy. When he pulled away, it was only to pepper small kisses down my neck and suck a red mark just below the collar.

"Nick, Nick, Nick." He chanted my name like it was Latin, like it was absolution in a language he could not understand and worship in a tongue he could not speak. "Come to my house, and I'll be your shelter. I'll give you the finest clothing and food and all I want is for you to love me."

"Gatsby," I murmured, and his arms tightened around me. "Gatsby, I don't need all that. Just you. Always you." His mouth was on mine again, hungering, taking, draining me dry. "Please," I said.

"I couldn't say no even if I wanted to," he said. "I love you too much."


End file.
